


And There Were Three

by newtmasdoesthedo



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Character Death, Emotions, F/M, M/M, Parentlock, Shitty Summary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtmasdoesthedo/pseuds/newtmasdoesthedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary’s dead, John’s struggling to cope and untangle his feelings, Sherlock turns out to be a surprisingly good father figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And There Were Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onemaytolerateaworldfullfofdemons.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=onemaytolerateaworldfullfofdemons.tumblr.com).



> 1\. My theory was that Mary (as in canon) would die. This happened.  
> 2\. You can blame this on [onemaytolerateaworldfullofdemons](onemaytolerateaworldfullofdemons.tumblr.com). Go look up her tumblr. She did this.  
> 3\. Inspired by [this](http://drinkwithmegrantaire.tumblr.com/post/72903446026/svaleroevenpictures-shit-im-so-sorry-guys)  
> 4\. Please point out if you spot any mistakes.  
> 5\. This will also be posted on my tumblr [drinkwithmegrantaire](drinkwithmegrantaire.tumblr.com), so if you see this floating around under that name do not fret, it is just me.  
> 6\. This is just a prologue, if you will, and future chapters will be longer since I seem to be unable to contain myself when it comes to this.

John had never expected to have to say goodbye to Mary so soon. He’d never expected to lose her, actually, because having the always-dangerous adventures he had with Sherlock, he’d kind of assumed that if he kept those up after marrying Mary, he’d be the one to die first. Not that he’d given it much thought, but that was just the way it was. Not much conscious thought had been given to the fact, but it was nothing but that. A fact. Mary was supposed to outlive him, and now she was gone. She’d been ripped from him in a way that was even less comprehendible than the most amazing of mysteries that Sherlock had dragged him out of his comfortable home to solve. Mary, beautiful Mary, his Mary. The only one that had been able to heal his heart. The one who’d softly, ever so softly pinched at the edges of that frayed muscle and pulled it together, softly, closer, but faster as time went by, and stitched him up one soft little movement at a time. The things that had made him a whole person again after Sherlock were countless, but they were all very Mary. The way her eyes crinkled a bit at the edges when she smiled, the way she never seemed to care if she looked ridiculous when she made those weird faces of hers, the way she’d completely accepted Sherlock into their lives as though he was a part of John. Something she couldn’t - and wouldn’t - keep out, even if he took so much of John’s time and thoughts. And he was. Sherlock was a part of John, even if he’d given up that privilege, John had never really taken it from him. They all knew it as soon as Sherlock came back. Mary knew it, John knew it, and Sherlock knew it. The only reason the detective didn’t do anything about the fact that John had always been painfully in love with him was that John was happy now. He was happy and safe with Mary and that was what he deserved.

 

That part of John’s life had been ripped from him, and there’d only been one person to help him. Sherlock had slowly stitched him together, possibly with even more care than Mary had when Sherlock had been missing, and he’d kept the promise he’d given at their wedding. He’d been there for all of them, because this would definitely have been Mary’s last wish. Sherlock helping John getting back on his feet, Sherlock becoming slightly more human for every month that went. Sherlock looking adoringly at the child in the crib, and Sherlock looking just as adoringly at John. His beautiful, perfect, broken Doctor, who he was now healing. He’d never thought the roles would be turned around, but John found Sherlock looking at him like he’d been used to looking at Sherlock. He’d been used to looking out for the other man, making sure he didn’t smoke too much, making sure he ate, making sure he didn’t get himself killed because he was so utterly infuriating. Mary would have wanted Sherlock to look at John like that, even if John had been hers for a short period of time. Mary had made herself a place in John’s heart, and she was still there, but Sherlock was wrapped around John like a human blanket. Sherlock had wrapped his entire existence, his entire, massive, at times terrifying intellect around John and the baby, and sometimes John caught himself thinking that the child might as well be Sherlock’s own. 

 

In the midst of all the sorrow, all the pain, Sherlock had transformed completely from the distant, almost robot-y half-human he’d been to a warm, caring father, a friend, and something more. Something underlying that John couldn’t exactly pinpoint through the fog of the loss of Mary. He didn’t know what Sherlock was anymore. He was used to people thinking they were boyfriends, but they weren’t. They weren’t exactly friends either. Something had changed, shifted somehow, in the way they moved around each other. Not a single kiss had been shared, not a single touch beyond what was acceptable for a normal man-to-man friendship, but something about the set of Sherlock’s lips, the softness in his eyes, and maybe even in the way John himself looked at the other man. Maybe it had changed the first time he’d walked in on Sherlock comforting the crying baby. Sherlock had slipped out of bed and into a very-exhausted John’s room as soon as Sherlock Jr. (Mary had insisted) had started moving. John hadn’t even known that Sherlock had installed a baby monitor, but he wasn’t surprised when he realized. When John’s tired eyes had opened at the soft whimpering that the screaming had diminished into Sherlock had been cradling the child against his prominent collarbone, softly rocking back and forth where he stood, muttering small sounds of comfort to the kid. At first John hadn’t recognized the sounds, but soon he realized that Sherlock was muttering all the names of the period table of elements.

 

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to try to teach him that already.” He had muttered tiredly, silently admiring the way Sherlock managed to get the child to calm down quicker than John ever had. There was something about the way Sherlock handled the child that reminded John of Mary, and the stab of hurt in his chest was the bitterest thing, and a very small part of him was angry with Sherlock for awakening this in him.

 

“I couldn’t play to him on the violin, you were sleeping.” Sherlock pointed out, still using the voice he’d been using to calm the child, and for a second it soothed even John. There was something about the soft tone that seemed almost ethereal. It was so hard to believe that the silky, kind, loving tone came from Sherlock, and those eyes that John had silently disagreed with in so many situations were locked on the baby in the semi-darkness, and John slowly let his eyes fall close again, trying to block out the hurt and let the fondness take over his heart instead and lull him to sleep.


End file.
